Jedi Civil War-Coruscant, winter season.
Bastila Shan, twenty-one years of age, with fine skin, brown hair that was done in an elaborate set of small pigtails, looked at herself in the mirror as she finished putting on the tight fitting beige civilian wear with orange trimming on the front and a long orange sash beneath it, Her blue eyes blinked a moment. She was uncomfortable when not in robes, but the military insisted she travel in civilian wear to avoid being less easily identified.
She was, after all, seemingly the only hope the Republic had.
After checking herself in the mirror, she compulsively examined her weapon, a light saber in the standard hilt size, Exar Kun style, but with two flat emitters on either end, which gave the blade a flat appearance when activated. At least it, would have, had the power crystal she had scavenged from a com-link not finally given out after over-use. She was amazed the low quality crystal had held out as long as it had, especially given the repeated attempts by the Sith to assassinate her.
She needed to replace it, but she didn't want to use the naturally grown crystals from caves that the Jedi kept in their storehouses.
She was in the market for something a bit more...exotic.
And if she wanted something exotic at the dead of night, in the middle of Coruscant's winter seasonal, she knew of only one person who could give her what she was asking for.
Her mind made up, Bastila put on her simple, brown leather boots, threw on a heavy brown coat that the temple seamstresses knitted for those going out in rough weather, and slipped out of her sparse quarters and down the halls of her Coruscant temple. She passed by no one as she made her way to the entrance.
She had to admit, getting out and getting some fresh air had been at least a good idea, as she stared absently at the cloudy grey sky, gently depositing snow on the transport platforms. She could occasionally make out some stars, and wondered how many stars had battles being fought around them, at this very instant. Bastila guessed it was too many.
She had gone back to Coruscant to rest and recuperate after the Battle of Deralia, where she had used her battle meditation to defeat the entire Sith 7th fleet, using her gift to drive every soldier on the Sith side into a raging, rabid like state, similar to the dreaded (But entirely mythical) Fast Zombie.
Darth Revan had raised the bounty on her head to over a million credits as a result. Half that if she was brought in dead. At least she knew she had made Revan mad, so she didn't mind it all that much. Besides, word of her ability to hijack people's minds had gotten around. Even the most seasoned veteran bounty hunter wouldn't dare take a shot.
As she walked past some children having a snowball fight on the upper platforms attached to the buildings, for an instant and no more she reminisced about the "Other" Coruscant she had been to, wondered how their version of the Jedi were doing. She quickly put it out of her mind though. The Order had confiscated the equipment that had allowed her to travel there.
As she spotted the turbo lift to take her to the under works, she smiled at the thought of the paintings they had allowed her to keep.
The Under works, as it had been for years, was a dark seemingly infinite series of alleys and pavilions, housing or hiding whatever vice one sought. Bastila's vices tonight included asking for a crystal that was normally not allowed for use in a light saber, and asking for it from a man the Jedi didn't like any of their own contacting unless they had no other choice.
But she knew Cambul Marek. He was dangerous, and his sanity had been in question for many years, but he was nothing if not reliable.
She followed the proscribed route through the alleys her underworld contact had told her about, winding through tight passages filled with steam and water dripping off pipes, like she had entered into another world altogether.
Passing through a veil of smoke she stopped in front of an old, old building, made of stone, with tall, cone shapes spires that jutted into the darkness. It was partially collapsed on the right, little more than rubble. All of the stained glass windows were busted, but she could see a faint orange glow from the innermost darkness of the building.
She went forward, checking her pockets to make sure she had everything she needed to pay the...man.
She stepped through the wrecked front entrance. Her eyes watered as she got an overwhelming whiff of the presence of alcohol and glitterstim.
She found him kneeling in front of a giant square shaped furnace, black in color, but containing designs of flowers and whales on its surface, whispering things too low for her to make out.
He was a disgusting sight. Little more the a torso and head lashed with cybernetics, they joined what was left of his flesh diagonally, a series of primitive gears and glowing battery rods surrounded by a transparent shell. His mouth and eyes were missing, replaced with an antique microphone shaped vocal synthesizer recessed deep into his face, green ocular sensors implanted deep into his metal rimmed eye sockets. He had no hair on his scarred scalp, and his skin was pale from lack of proper blood flow. He wore a series of animal skins in a toga-like design as he knelt, holding in his hands what looked like a crucifix with a wide bottom lined with glass beads. The center of the cross surrounded by a circle carved to look like a wreath of vines and leaves. At the center of the shiny, wood finished object lay a transparent sphere filled with a pale green light. The work space was clean, and fastidiously maintained, but elsewhere she could see empty bottles and discarded hypos. Cambul was not only one of the most dangerous weapon smiths the Order had ever trained, he was also a notorious abuser of substances.
"Bastila," he said simply, his original dry lighthearted voice twisted by an electronic hiss. "To what do I owe this unexpected visit?"
"I need your help," Bastila said, slowly approaching, lest she cause his notorious paranoia to get the better of him.
"Help costs."
"I can pay you. I've saved the stipends the order has given me."
"Bassie," he chuckled, turning to face her. "Of what use are credits in the hand of a knave such as I, since I do not wish to spend it on wisdom?"
Bastila sighed, reached into her coat and tossed a brick worth of a glittering amber substance his way.
"Dagobah vine resin. Your favorite."
A hand covered in wires and a metal brace snatched for the highly illegal substance. "Your consideration of my needs is, as always, highly appreciated. Now, what is it you desire?"
"A new crystal. I'm told you can get your hands on a Quixoni."
A tall order, even at the best of times. You do know that almost all of that kind of crystal has either been sent to private collections or are resting in another's hilt?"
"Don't give me the runaround, Marek. I was told you were the person I needed to speak to."
She couldn't tell if he was glowering as he stared. "Like a fool, you find no pleasure in understanding, yet delight in uttering your follies. If anyone could score that for you it would be me. But I haven't run across one of those in years."
"You and your proverbs," she muttered.
"Why is it so essential to have a Quixoni of all things anyway? Other crystals can do a more than adequate job of focusing the blade-"
"Not for this kind," she said handing him her light saber hilt.
Mechanical fingers brushed lightly over the weapon. "Hmmm...flat blade. I see your trouble. You need a very specific type of crystal. What were you using before?"
"A com-link crystal."
The cyborg raised the remainder of an eyebrow, clearly appalled at such a travesty. "When did you learn how to construct light sabers? Yesterday?"
Bastila tried a proverb of her own. "Your lips bring strife, and invite many a beating."
"Your wickedness is followed naturally by your contempt," Cambul replied off-handedly, rising. "Don't try and out-proverb me. I got a million of them. Why make a flat blade?"
"It...was during an emergency situation," Bastila answered carefully. He'd think she was lying if she had told him the actual circumstances.
Cambul stared. "Emergency, eh. Things are making a little sense now. Got separated from your main weapon?"
Bastila nodded. "I've adopted this one as its replacement."
"Exar Kun style, eh? Can't imagine that went over too well with your Jedi Masters, unless their policy toward naked aggression changed when I wasn't looking," Cambul somehow managed an electronic sigh. "If I'm going to give you a new crystal, I might as well give your blade a once over as well. Believe me, Hastily constructed weapons can screw up at precisely the wrong moment," the hideous cyborg articulated before picking up the weapon and going over to a worktable next to his forge. He immediately took a hydro spanner and a fusion cutter and deftly cut a cross section of Bastila's double bladed weapon open. "Do you have your original weapon? I would like to examine and compare your design preferences."
Bastila tossed him her old light saber, a simple, undecorated brown leather-wrapped hilt with a silver, bowl shaped emitter.
"Jedi these days," he muttered. "No flare at all. Just function. In my day we used to take pride in craftsmanship. They used to heap praise on artisans like me."
"If you cleaned yourself up and kicked the drugs and booze, I'm sure they'd welcome you back," Bastila suggested helpfully, removing her coat and kneeling on the clean part of the floor to meditate.
"I'm already suspect in their eyes. I'd rather have a vial of glitterstim and the peace and quiet of my chapel than a good meal in the den of strife the Temple has become. If you ever decide to wise up, Bastila, you will to. To think I tried to be a humble pacifist once," he replied, peering into the innards. "Just as I thought. Sloppy and with substandard parts never designed to perform in this manner. I'd expect this sort of work from a youngling, not the only hope of the Republic."
"I see you still follow the news. I'm amazed, frankly."
"My heart is discerning, and seeketh knowledge-when I'm not hallucinating that is," he mumbled, absorbed in his examination before he shot straight up and turned to her. "Wait. You ARE real, right? I'm not just imagining working on this weapon?"
"Yes, Cambul, I'm real," she huffed in annoyance, eyes still closed.
"A pity," Cambul said, going back to work as he started removing parts.
Bastila opened her eyes. "How is that a pity?" she demanded, eyes narrowed.
"Because I was just about ready to embrace the delusion that you didn't have any clothes on," he cackled.
Bastila gave him a rude hand gesture before closing her eyes. "Now I know why the Order considers you suspect."
Bastila examined the weapon Cambul handed her.
He had taken a few liberties, having replaced almost all of the parts she had used to make her double-weapon with parts from her old light saber, even replacing the power coupling ports she had used for the emitters with custom made emitters from his workshop. the design on both ends consisted of small, pea-sized stones with bands of green, red and orange running across a white surface-candy jasper by the looks of it-were set at the ends of a gently looping, gilded cross guard made from black metal that tapered off into a narrow, but solid feeling stem that connected to the hilt proper. The brown leather had been replaced by a white material with an image of the Orders Sword and Wings symbol in red stitched into it.
"All control mechanisms are set internally. It must be activated with your mind," he explained.
Bastila concentrated, remembering how the exiled Jedi Valia Renn had prefered internalized control mechanisms in her weapon.
Sun fire yellow blades snaked out, flat and bearing a diamond shaped tip on either end. She gave it a twirl. Perfect balance. "The Order made a grave error letting you go," she complimented, genuine admiration in her tone, as her eyes were transfixed.
"They didn't let me go. I left them," he replied. "They had me make dozens of WMD's solely to terrorize our enemies and yet when our enemies were vanquished because of my work, I was questioned for what I had created. Let me tell you, that is the last time I manufacture a suitcase nuclear weapon without pay."
Bastila raised her eyebrows at the cyborg, he returned the gaze, nothing in his posture indicating he had been joking.
"I'd better get out of here," she said, changing the subject. "The Master's don't like it when I sneak out like this."
"Of course. If you ever feel like escaping from it all, I have plenty here that will allow just that," he said, gesturing to the myriad examples of narcotics he kept around the place.
"I don't feel like giving up on life just yet," Bastila replied as politely as possible, before gathering her coat and leaving Cambul to his darkness, disturbed.
"Bastila!" he called out, just before she reached the exit.
"Yes?" she asked, turning.
"Three warnings," he said simply. "An evil man is bent only on rebellion; a merciless official will be sent against him. It is not good to punish an innocent man nor to flog officials for their integrity. He who covers over an offence promotes love, but whoever repeats the matter separates close friends."
"Okayyy," she trailed, confused. "I'll try to remember that."
"See that you do," he replied, before retreating to his furnace, and kneeling with his crucifix-possibly a disguised light foil, if Bastila was guessing right.
Bastila departed the ruined building, heading for home.
She hadn't slept well for days, stewing over the cryptic nature of Cambul's warnings. What did they mean? Had he seen something in her future? Did he even care enough to look? Or were his words nothing more than the products of a mind that slipped further into anarchy with each passing day?
None of the masters had commented on the recent redesign of her weapon. They had been instructed to give Bastila her space after she had been strained by her recent battle.
As she meditated in her sparse quarters, a familiar figure walked in. Bastila smiled opening her eyes as she stared at her old friend, Juhani. The slightly furry woman from Cathar blinked golden eyes, smiling, her feline nose bunching up. Her brown braids of hair fixed in an elaborate top knot. Her robes were a bright splash of scarlet in color, with black boots, gloves, and shoulder pads.
"Juhani! Its been months. Nobody told me you'd be coming!" Bastila exclaimed happily, rising to hug her old friend.
"Wanted to surprise you," Juhani said with a thick accent. "Masters called me here to Coruscant on business."
Bastila perked. "What sort of business?"
Juhani sighed and scratched her head. "You really aren't going to like this next bit. Remember that little...uh...'trip' you and I took?"
Bastila glowered. "Don't tell me..."
"Jedi council deliberated it for months now. They want you and me to go back."
Bastila folded her arms. "May I ask why."
"Masters worried our actions may have caused more harm than good," she replied gently.
"Even after I left out the disagreeable bits," Bastila muttered, pinching her nose. "Why pick us again?"
"We know the environment. Masters are just as afraid of making a misstep," Juhani answered. "It WAS a nice place to visit, all things considered."
"Yeah, when you didn't have to worry about treacherous spirits from parallel realities," Bastila muttered. "Or doing a Council-approved assassination mission."
"It won't be like that this time. Nobody will even know we were there. It will be just a simple investigation, nothing more."
"Nothing about Jedi Investigations are simple," Bastila snapped. "Who approved this?"
Juhani threw her a cynical look. "Who do you think? Queen Frosty herself."
Atris. The Orders top Historian also moonlighted as the main head of Jedi Intelligence Operations. Her tact and ruthlessness was legendary; so much so that sometimes no one was sure whether or not the High Council was still in charge of all Jedi or whether Atris was just telling the council what to say. Not a woman to be crossed. Darth Revan had recently learned this when Atris had forged footage of Revan sleeping with a Dark Jedi from the Korriban academy and then sending it to the Dark Lord's erstwhile spouse, Malak. The spat he had had with her in public had sabotaged her image and credibility in several Sith controlled sectors.
If Atris had approved this, there was no way they were NOT going.
"That woman's gonna be my undoing, one of these days," Bastila sighed, pinching the bridge of her nose. "When do we leave?"
"Tomorrow. Atris wants us to prepare ourselves," Juhani answered. "I'm sorry Bastila. I wish this were under better circumstances."
"It's not your fault. 'Queen Frosty' is just too damn curious for her own good."
The next day...
"Good to see you, Bastila," Atris spoke as the Padawan entered the chambers that immediately preceeded the paths into the temple's underground catacombs, where no Jedi had ventured for centuries. The chamber was carved from the rock of the temple's foundation and was fixed with cheap running lights along the walls and ceiling, all connected by a wire or two. "I apologize that this has to come up on such short notice, but the decision was reached only yesterday-"
"How long should I plan to stay?" Bastila interrupted, in no mood for false apologies. She wore the garb of the Jedi that belonged in the particular dimension she was traveling to: A white cotton shirt with brown slacks and shoes, a brown trench coat and a white domino mask. Juhani walked in a second later, clad in a tight fitting red leather bodysuit, black boots that went up to her knee, and a red domino mask. She was carrying a small duffle bag.
Atris never seemed to change. She was wearing what she always wore: An all white version of Historian Robes, her pale skin and ice white hair tied in a conservative bun, a few strands hanging loosely on the sides. Her ice blue eyes raked them over. "Two days at most. We want your investigation to be thorough. I trust you are ready for all contingencies?"
"We have supplies enough. We'll make it," Juhani answered. "Just as long as you don't send us to kill anybody."
Atris blinked, chuckled, and pulled out a cigar from her pocket, she placed it in her mouth and lit the tip with her pale blue lightsaber blade. "Why dear Juhani...I wouldn't dream of it," she replied with a dark smile, gesturing with her hand to the machine that was to transport them. "Right this way."
The machine-a golden, projector like device fixed to a tripod-had been pointed to a bare, concrete wall. Bastila tensed as she approached it. Once she passed through, she would be truly relying on her own wits to stay alive there, just as she had two years ago.
Atris went over to the machine and flicked a switch. The machine hummed with activity and a small portal of flickering gold around the edges appeared, showing only darkness on the other side.
Bastila took a deep breath, gave one more sour look to Atris, and then stepped through it, with Juhani.
Bastila's eyes adjusted to the darkness of the other side. It appeared to be some sort of sewer system. She could see light not too far ahead of her. The bag Juhani was carrying had the other projector the Orders technicians had finally managed to replicate. Without it, there was no chance they were going home. She saw the portal close behind her. They were on their own. Again.
"I wonder if they fought their Mandalorian Wars yet," Juhani wondered as they proceeded through the sewer pipe, dry, but reeking nonetheless.
"If they have, maybe they were smart enough to keep an eye on Revan. Unlike us," Bastila replied as they finally cleared the pipe and gazed at the sight beyond.
The entire skyline seemed to be lit in celebration. Fireworks were popping off in every direction, and the wind floated pieces of ticker tape in the orange skyline. If she listened closely, she could make out the sound of instruments being played through the streets. The skyscrapers of this universes Coruscant were more elaborate, with carvings and statues of animals and men along their surface. A new building dominated the skyline however, one she hadn't seen before. It was tall, obelisk like, with four smaller towers joined by a fortress wall surrounding it. A giant silver shield was mounted on the side of the building visible to her, with the Jedi's sword and wings symbol lit up on it by two searchlights.
"Guess they've moved up in the world," Juhani remarked.
Bastila spotted a ladder attached to the bottom of the pipe. She quickly climbed onto it and proceeded down ward. Juhani followed and they spotted a turbolift on a small, seemingly abandoned platform. It looked like it hadn't been used in years. It would be a perfect place to set up a camp: They had the survival gear, and a few electrum ingots to help purchase supplies.
"What do you say, Juhani? You like this spot?" Bastila asked.
"Hmmm...great view, open air. What not to like?" Juhani mused, before withdrawing a few ingots from the bag and handing them to Bastila. "After food. You know that place we went to last time? I wonder if it is still around.
"I agree. If Queen Frosty was patient enough to wait until the last minute to spring this on me, then she's patient enough to wait until I'm damn good and ready to get started," Bastila huffed. "I could eat an ox. You?"
"Sturgeon with red wine. Some crab on side," Juhani answered, lapsing into a broken syntax. Despite the progress she had made, she still occasionally fell into the habit. The masters mainly encouraged a full syntax because they didn't like perceived laziness. But Juhani liked the way she spoke. She felt it made her distinct. She took the bag and stashed it inside the opening of a defunct maintenance tunnel behind the turbolift.
"Shall we?" Bastila asked as they went to the turbolift and pressed the down button.
The parade was in full swing when the pair entered the streets. People were yelling and hugging one another. Bastila saw some people standing next to a local bar clinking their glasses together.
"What everyone celebrating?" Juhani wondered. Her question was answered when a poster flying through the wind caught her in the face. She pulled it off and stared.
"Hey Bassie, look," Juhani said showing her the picture.
Bastila gazed at the elaborately drawn picture of a Mandalorian mask, a dull red color with a mottled texture across its surface and a thin visor to see out of, split in a violent diagonal manner. Under it were the words VM (Victory over Mandalore) DAY.
"I guess that answer question," Juhani spoke. "Think we should warn them about Revan?"
"They were plenty concerned about him last time we looked and I don't think they would have let him maintain total control. We're here to investigate, nothing more," Bastila asserted.
Suddenly she stopped herself. She had chosen to not involve herself last time in the affairs of this demension and it had cost Rae Nolin his soul.
"But," she added. "I can assure you I won't stand idly if I see the kek hit the fan."
Juhani shrugged. "Fair enough."
The pair made their way through the crowds celebrating on the city streets. She saw giant floats on repulsorlift carts full of dancing women in skimpy outfits. She smiled as she saw a sailor in red and yellow fatigues take hold of a woman in a white dress and kiss her. Most paid her no heed but some would occasionally wave or nod or tip their hats to the pair in a gesture of respect.
"Think the Jedi are popular here now?" Bastila wondered.
"Have not seen anybody who was displeased to see us," Juhani replied, sticking out her tongue and letting a snowflake hit it as more began to fall.
They passed through more shops and people celebrating, and Bastila began seeing more and more posters, drawn in what might have been called an art deco style, they depicted a bunch of similarly drawn smiling men and women in white domino mask and brown business suits punching men wearing white shirts and tan khakis with face masks that had a t-shaped visor. Underneath were the words, drawn in large black print WINNING THE WAR ONE MANDO AT A TIME! JOIN TODAY! Another bore a poster of a strangely familiar man in a blue set of robes with a brown, toga-like coat that was open in the front and slung over his left shoulder. He wore a golden face mask with a large, black visor to see out of. His black boots stood on a pile of Mandalorian masks and he held a flat, glowing blue blade with a diamond shaped tip, guarding against more Mandalorians taking aim. Over him were the words HE CAN'T WIN ALONE! SIGN UP FOR THE INFANTRY! See local recruiting office for details.
"Guess Revan's popular in spite of it all. In spite of what he forced," Bastila said with no small amount of disgust. Her stomach grumbled. She gestured to an alley she had seen last time. "This is the way, lets go."
The nightclub wasn't as she remembered it. It was packed the last time. Now it was almost empty, a few patrons sitting in the corners of the club, drinking in the darkness, while some man crooned about a lost love on stage while playing the piano. Juhani and Bastila strode across the dark velvet carpet, taking a seat in the back, where the kitchen was.
A waiter, a Rodian, strode up to them in a a severe black tuxedo. "And what will the ladies have this evening?"
"Steak." Bastila said. "A glass of ale."
"And how would the Madame like her steak?"
"Fully cooked," the padawan answered.
"Sturgeon. Red wine. Crab," Juhani added. "Don't bother cooking fish. Bring it raw. Crab too."
The waiter bowed, heading into the kitchen Bastila peered at the Cather. "I didn't know you could eat raw food."
"Hello, carnivore?" Juhani asked cynically. "Besides, taste so much better raw. Humans are ones who need to burn food. Weak stomachs."
Bastila chuckled. "Too true."
The waiter soon brought back their food. "The chef wishes me to inform you there is no charge where heroes of the Union are concerned," the waiter informed the both of them before departing, not waiting for their response.
"The only thing better than free food is...wait, what am I saying? Free food is bee's knees!" Juhani exclaimed, picking up the fish, scales and all, and sinking her teeth into its head. Bastila watched with mild fascination as Juhani tore the head away in one yank and chewed vigorously before swallowing it all. Bastila quietly picked away at her steak, taking small bites and sipping at her ale, before finally pushing the food away, half eaten, Her eyes had been bigger than her stomach. "You want this?" she asked Juhani.
Juhani chucked the fish tail eagerly into her mouth and eagerly took the plate. "Always wonder what cow tastes like when burned."
At first bite, Bastila could have sworn she heard her friend purring for a split second before catching herself. "I see why you eat it. Could get used to burnt food."
"Glad to hear it," Bastila replied. "Juhani, I've been meaning to ask you something..."
"Shoot," her friend replied in between bites.
"Did I fail here last time?"
Juhani paused.
"No. Not really. Was first major assignment you ever had, unless you count that mess at Ukatis..."
Bastila held up a hand. "Don't remind me. Still can't get over how badly I screwed up. Sometimes I still worry about Valia Renn coming after me."
"What I say is," Juhani began with a sigh. "Is that situation was an unknown. It could have gone worse. Much worse. You did best you could with resources and information available. I can name dozen other padawans off top of my head who would have cracked at pressure you experienced."
"Thanks for the vote of confidence. I just...have a bad feeling about all of this."
"So do I, but I no let it get me down. Chin up, da?"
Bastila nodded. "You always did know what to say to cheer me up."
"You're welcome," Juhani said, beaming.
"Okay, where do you think we should start? I personally think the most reasonable place to get information would have to be from somebody friendly to us. And who do we know here that's friendly?"
Juhani snapped her fingers. "Captain Onasi."
"Right. If there's anybody we can chat up without raising suspicions, it'll be him. Trouble is, where to look for him?"
"Hey, didn't he mention that he'd like to move him and his wife into those crazy huge arcologies?" Juhani asked.
"Slim chance, but better than nothing. Qel-Droma arcology it is," Bastila said, getting up.
"You know, if this no pan out, then Revan always an option," Juhani added. "And unlike Onasi, he could be relatively easy to locate."
"I'd sooner jab myself in the leg with a spoon," Bastila muttered. "But I'll keep it in mind. Let's get out of here."
Juhani nodded, swallowing the last of her wine and steak as she followed Bastila.
Jedi Precinct, Coruscant.
Revan marched through the precinct as though he owned the place.
He had done it. After two years of brutal war, he had done it. He had stopped the Mandalorian Cartels with the Force as his ally.
Swathed in his brown and blue robes, he finally dared to let out an exhale of relief.
He had been so unsure when all this started. So full of fear. But he had heeded his mentor's guidance, and through that guidance, he had brought the full power of the Force to light for all Jedi to take hold of.
True, suspicion had been cast on him and those like him, those who did not follow standard operating procedure, and after the disaster at the old precinct, he had had to work hard to earn back even a modicum of trust-
But it was over! At last it was over! And now that the cartels had been beaten and the new teachings had proven themselves, a whole wealth of possibilities for the future lay before the Agency-no, the Order-that his head was spinning with excitement. They could be called in to mediate disputes, fight the worst of the worst, help bring civility to regions of the galaxy still torn apart by strife. They would have to be impartial, and ultimately a separate entity from the Union but it could be done. And with the Rakatan Space Factory at his disposal, there was no limit to the possibilities. And still there were more mysteries to be solved in the Force proper.
So absorbed was he in his excitement-though that could not be read thanks to the golden mask covering his face-that it took him a while to notice the dirty looks thrown at him by other agents wearing the standard business suits that were trademark of the old way of doing things. Even Agents who wore the brown and blue robes he did-averted their gaze as he walked past them to go to the meeting with the commission.
A cold feeling entered his stomach as he walked past the vast halls and offices full of equipment and training sessions. What was going on here?
They had beaten the Mandalorians! Why were they not celebrating?
Why was everyone acting like it was another day of work? More to the point, why was everyone acting like they worked in a morgue? It was VM Day!
Revan took a turbo lift up to the top of precinct headquarters. The old precinct had been abandoned, though it still stood, damaged and silent after his old friend Rae Nolin's bloody siege. There was too much pain there. Far too much.
Revan walked into a cacophony of shouting and calls for order amid the court-like chamber. Some agents in the old suits were arguing loudly with others as well as agents who wore brown and blue robes like he did.
Revan grimaced under his mask as he saw Senior Investigator Vrook Lamar, dressed in an all-white version of the standard business suit, bang a gavel from the Judge's seat.
"Alright, lads and lasses. The man we're all here for has finally arrived. Take yer' seats," he called out in his own peculiar accent before fixing his gaze on Revan. "Step forward, boyo. You and yer' lot have much to answer for. And for yer own sake, they better damn well be the right answers."
"Master Lamar-" Revan tried to speak, in his dark, yet elegant voice that had commanded armies in the past months
"We'll have none 'o' that 'Master' business here, boyo. For the last bloody time, yer' not a bloody knight on a white horse. It's 'Mister' to you," Vrook spoke, annoyed.
"Very well, Mister Lamar. I must confess-" Revan began, stepping forward. "I half expected everyone here to be celebrating the recent victory over the cartels-"
"Oh, here we go again with the bloody Mandalorians. Don't you have anything else you focus on, boyo-"
"Mister Lamar," Revan snapped sharply. "If you wish me to respect you with the appropriate titles, I must first ask the same courtesy. 'Officer Revan' will do."
Vrook stared at him. "Barely an officer-but why not. Sure, I'll humor you, 'Officer Revan'. Do ya' know why you been called to these illustrious chambers?"
"The nature of this conference eludes me," Revan replied, clasping his hands behind his back. "May I ask where the other investigators are?"
"Damage control," Vrook answered.
Revan paused, feeling the air go still. "For?"
"This little stunt you pulled with the press," Vrook answered, hitting a control switch.
A hologram began to play in the middle of the court room, it was showing him, giving an interview to a young, aspiring journalist, a blue Twi-lek called Mission Vao. The interview had been mostly mundane, except for the last part, where the grey jumpsuit wearing girl had asked him what was next.
"Well hopefully," the hologram Revan answered, "Now that we've proven the new methods, we'll be able to spread out and focus on more than just dealing with violators of the Force Sensitivity Act. These new powers lend themselves to all sorts of applications from civilian to diplomatic-"
"Wait," the young woman had stopped him, "So you're saying the Jedi are going to start enforcing other government policies?"
"Not enforcing so much as expanding-adjusting-"
"But isn't that beyond the scope of the Agency's original objectives?"
"Well yes, but I have always felt that the Agency was capable of being so much more than just a police force for our own kind-"
"And the senior investigators agree with you?" the Twi-lek asked, obviously smelling blood.
"They're a proactive lot. They know which way the wind is blowing with the Mandalorians defeated. Why wouldn't they agree with me?"
Vrook stopped the interview there. "Why wouldn't we agree with you?" he asked, scratching his chin and going "Hmmmm..." in an exaggerated fashion. "Let's see. Anybody remember the bloodbath at the old precinct?"
Everyone in the old clothing raised their hands. Revan got a sinking feeling in the middle of his stomach, like the floor had been pulled out from under him.
"Anybody remember killing old friends who'd been driven insane by the power Revan forced on all of us?"
Reluctantly, some of his own supporters raised their hand.
"Ah that about does it. Do ya have any idea how much convincing we're gonna need to do to convince the government we ain't becoming some kinda sick cult of vigilantes?" Vrook asked. "You forget Revan, that the only reason we got involved in the Unions war wasn't because of all the fancy powers that Statue doohickey taught us. It was because the situation was so desperate the Union had no choice but to ask us for help. And we, bein' the fine little bunch 'o' patriots we were, said yes-with grave reservations. Taking the wind from your sails that would have ended in accusing everyone who didn't want to fight of cowardice was just icing on the cake."
"But you 'saw' how effective the new teachings are!" Revan protested, desperate to get back control of the situation. "They helped us beat the Mandalorians!"
"Debatable. Most Agents survived the war using only standard operating procedure: Clairvoyance or healing, only turning to those strange techniques and weapons when we were given no other alternative. I can show the government study confirming this if you feel like being bloody obstinate," Vrook remarked. "The point is, It took all of this Agency's considerable charm to keep the government from declaring us all outlaws after that incident with Nolin-which you helped facilitate I might add."
"I can only apologize for that so many times. It was growing pains. We were taking our first steps into a larger world. We needed to see the pitfalls. Has not the memory of that terrible night kept you all on the right track? Do you not find yourself weighing your decisions carefully?" Revan asked.
Vrook squinted. "Why you self righteous prick," he spat hatefully. "Most of us feel like we're navigating our way through a field of sharp rocks half the time because 'o' what we saw that night. Well I got news for you, boyo...we've had it with you. You've gone too far this time."
Revan kept still even as he felt the air electrify. "If I committed an error in public, I will be glad to issue a statement to the press that retracts the offense."
"Not good enough. The investigators have come to a decision. These teachings, these light saber weapons-they're banned, effective immediately. We are not going to alter the very fabric of the Agency to suit you anymore, Revan. We've humored you enough, we played along, we gave you exactly what you wanted when it comes to the Mandalorians-but no further."
"You're making a mistake," Revan protested, stunned by the sudden pronouncement that the investigators were setting everything back to zero. "These teachings-they're not evil if you use them right. They can do so much good in the right hands. And what if another enemy of the Union comes along-"
"Governments will always have enemies, and if they ask us to help them again, we will-but not before thinking long and hard about it," Vrook replied in a cold manner. "And what good are you talking about that couldn't be achieved by other, simpler means? We can't just take the law into our own hands and hope for the best. This agency was created for a very specific purpose-and that was to prevent other people with the Force from getting out of control and threatening innocent lives. To minimize, as much as possible, the threat the Force represents. A mission which is jeopardized because of these teachings, due to the risk of escalation. If we went with what you want, the kind of slaughter that occurred at the old precinct could very well become a regular occurrence. Unless we keep things simple, we'll be fighting a vicious war that will never end."
"You don't know that," Revan replied angrily.
"True but I can guess that is what will happen. And if any of his followers feels like sticking up for him, let me remind you of one thing: Most of you only signed on to his crazy scheme because you lost confidence that the Agency proper couldn't cut the mustard when it came to the Mando's-something I can confidently demonstrate as being categorically false. Now that the Mando's are beaten, do ya really wanna spend the rest of your life taking up a cause that can just as easily be handled by the regular police or diplomats? Or would you rather settle back down and go back to business as usual? Cause if you go with him, you won't be a law enforcement officer either figuratively OR literally. You'll be a member of a cult who thinks that its their duty to stick their nose where it isn't their concern.
Revan waited, and when no one from his side spoke, his head drooped slightly.
"I thought so," Vrook said after a moment before fixing his eyes on Revan. "You have two choices, Revan. You can either come back to reality and give up this silly-as-hell 'Jedi Knight' business, turn in yer lightsaber and stop fighting like a bloody savage, or I can fire your ass and let you go live in a cave somewhere, preferably a deserted planetoid, where you can scratch that fruity little Jedi code limerick you made up on the walls with your fingers till they bleed. Now what's it gonna be?"
Revan didn't-couldn't answer-trapped as he was. As much as he hated to admit it, the Commissioners hadn't dragged their legs in deciding to aid the Union, they had thrown their entire weight at the problem-even while ignoring everything they had been shown about the Force's true nature. He couldn't fault them for thinking they had more than lived up to their reputation as patriots-to their end of things.
But if only they hadn't decided to be so wrong!
Revan exhaled. He had some heavy thinking to do. He'd planned so much, and the Investigators had snatched all of it away before it could even start. No order, no group of selfless men and women fighting to preserve democracy and innocent life and discovering the Force's higher mysteries. The Force was nothing but a job-slash-threat to them, and always would be.
Revan removed his light saber. It had a t-shaped cross guard with an ivory grip, and had saved his life so many times he couldn't imagine life without it.
But even as he thought this, he slowly placed the blade on the desk in front of Vrook, whose face was impassive at this gesture of submission. He would not be the one to split the Agency. To cause yet another civil war amongst his bretheren.
"I expect you to show up for work bright and early tomorrow morning. No more press interviews. No more exotic methods of doing things. And you had better show up in Agency regulated wear instead of those damn robes, or don't bother showing up at all," Vrook instructed. "Dismissed."
Revan did not acknowledge him. He simply turned and went the way he came.
"Cowards," he said under his breath.
And Revan, the first man of this demension to ever call himself a Jedi Knight, walked out as the last man to ever call himself a Jedi Knight. The Investigators had killed the dream, and no one even pretended to shed a tear.